


Get Him to the Altar

by Princessedelarue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessedelarue/pseuds/Princessedelarue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiddleford rubbed tiredly at his brow. He slumped forward on the bed and tried to imagine a scenario in which he could drive clear across the United States to help the love of his life win back his ex-girlfriend without it ending in humiliation and heartbreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the Mystery Trio AU. More than half of it was written before "A Tale of Two Stans" aired, so Stan's brother's personality won't always reflect his canon characterization. That said, I HAVE JUST SWITCHED THE TWINS NAMES TO REFLECT WHAT WE LEARNED IN ATOTS. So Stanford in this story is the author of the journals and Stanley is Mr. Mystery, later known as Grunkle Stan. I wasn't planning on making that change for this story, but I plan to do a couple of oneshots in this universe later on, and I've gotten used to the name switch, so...
> 
> This story begins many years before Dipper and Mabel are born – in the Spring of 1977. We didn't get an exact age or year for the twins when they were shown as children in ATOTS, but given what we know now I'd say this puts them in their mid-late twenties. Let's say 27. Fiddleford was not an old college friend of Stanford's in this universe and has only been working for him as an assistant for about 8 months or so. He was a resident of Gravity Falls before the twins came and he has never been married. I'd put him a couple of years older than the twins, say 29. [So yeah, Fiddleford's backstory now diverges a lot from canon. Oops.]
> 
> I’ll be posting this story in two blocks: the prologue and second chapter today and the third chapter and epilogue together, sometime in the future. I can’t tell you exactly when the second half of this story will be posted, but know that the wedding chapter (the 3rd) will be even longer than the road trip chapter (the 2nd) – and it will be lots of romantic, family, angst-y fun!

It was a plain envelope, white and square, with one of those little butterfly stamps in the top corner. It was addressed to Stanley in neat, curly handwriting. He wasn’t going to be able to pretend that he’d thought it was his when he’d opened it, but maybe that wouldn’t matter this time.

Stanley Pines had been cordially invited to the wedding of Carla McCorkle and Thistle Downe.

Stanford toyed with the idea of hiding the envelope before Stan came back; of ripping it to shreds, lighting it on fire, _anything_ to keep it from throwing his brother back into the terrible pit of depression he’d fallen into a year ago.

After the first person he’d ever loved left him for another man.

And after he’d spent a long night in jail for driving that man’s van into a ravine.

Ford probably wouldn’t have hesitated to destroy the pretty, lace-trimmed invitation if a small note hadn’t been enclosed with it. It was scribbled on lined paper torn at the edges; a personal plea from Carla for Stan to let everything that had happened between them go. It said that she’d forgiven him, and that Thistle had too.

She said that she missed him.

The front door slammed open and his brother’s booming laughter filled the house. Ford shoved the envelope under the cushion of his armchair just as Stan was rounding the corner into the living room. He was dragging a grinning Fiddleford along beside him with an arm over his neck.

“Ford! You should have seen Fidds with these pixies! He –” Stan paused, staring at a spot by his brother’s knee.

Stanford shifted awkwardly in his seat, trying to act casual while also waving his hands in a frantic, pathetic attempt to draw Stanley's attention.

He knew he was caught.

He held his breath as Stan untangled himself from Fiddleford to reach down and pull at the corner of paper peeking out from under the chair.

Clutching the envelope in both hands, Stan’s expression hardened when he took in the return address. “What _is_ this?” he hissed, ripping the invitation from the centre. Carla’s note fluttered delicately to the floor. He snatched it up while crumpling the card in his other hand.

Ford rose from his seat, took a step forward, and murmured, “Stan…” but his brother’s eyes were already trailing over the words on the page.

Anger was soon replaced with pain. A strangled, inhuman, sound left Stan’s throat as he ran from the room. A few seconds later a door slammed shut at the top of the stairs.

“What was that?”

Ford sighed, rubbed at his eyes with one hand, and sat down heavily in his seat. He looked up at his assistant with a grim smile. “I guess it’s time you heard about Carla.”

 

-xXxXx-

 

Strong arms holding him up. A toothy smile leaning down to mouth bruises into his neck. Hot breath at his ear sighing his name. A deep groan vibrating through him to his core…

“ _S-tanley_ ”

There was someone knocking and a voice similar to Stan’s calling out, “Hey Fidds,” but that couldn’t be right. And how could the muscled flesh in his hands feel so soft and pliable, as though it were filled with nothing but air?

Rustling by his dresser roused him enough to blink his eyes open at the pillow he was kneading between his fingers. Fiddleford sighed in a resigned sort of disappointment. He closed his eyes again and willed his subconscious to take him back to that heart-clenching embrace, for just a little while longer.

Then the creak of his closet door made him realize he _wasn’t_ alone.

Fiddleford shot up with a gasp. A large shadow danced around the room from the swinging light inside the closet. He scrambled to catch hold of the glasses on his nightstand, knocking a notebook and some pens to the floor in the process. With them perched on his nose he could finally make out the broad shoulders and slicked back hair of his employer’s twin, turned away from him as he rifled through Fiddleford’s wardrobe.

“Stanley! What –” A sudden awareness had Fiddleford pressing his knees together under the sheets and bunching his comforter into a ball at his lap. “What are you doing here?”

Stan didn’t turn around and didn’t answer the question. He shuffled through Fiddleford’s possessions without shame, knocking down boxes and hangers left and right. “You got a suitcase or something? You’re gonna need – ah!” He pulled an old duffel bag from the top shelf and dropped it on the floor behind him, then went back to thumbing through Fiddleford’s clothes.

A glance at the clock on his dresser had the engineer hissing, “Do you know what time it is?”

“4:30 ish?” Stan tossed a few balls of socks over his shoulder to bounce in and around the open bag.

“Yes!” There was a bubble of annoyance settling in Fiddleford’s chest, but it was pushed down by a sudden, curious thought; “How did you even get in here?”

A low chuckle echoed out from the closet as one of his dress shirts went flying. “I don’t think you want an answer to that, Fidds.” Stan’s next words were muffled, as though he were talking to himself more than to Fiddleford. “How about a suit? You gotta have suit in here somewhere.”

“Stanley, look at me.” The firm tone finally caught the big oaf’s attention; Stan’s head popped obediently out from the doorway. “ _What_ are you doing in my _bedroom_ at _4:30_ in the _morning_?”

The harsh light of the closet illuminated only half of Stan’s wicked grin. “Packing,” he replied cheekily. Fiddleford cleared his throat and he continued, “We’re hittin’ the road; you, me and Ford.”

That was unexpected. Fiddleford sat gaping for a moment, then leaned over to grope for the lamp switch on the far end table. In the brighter light he got a clear view of Stan’s bottom as he bent back to his work. “What do you mean?” His favourite pair of slacks was thrown out to form a wrinkled mess on the floor. “Where are we going?”

Another dress shirt met its sad fate on the hardwood. “New Jersey. We’ve only got about three days to get there, so we gotta get a move on. You’re going to need enough clean clothes for about a week,” Stan explained, holding his left hand out straight behind him and shaking it in a noncommittal gesture. “Give or take.”

“New Jersey?” Fiddleford asked, but things had started to click as soon as he’d said the name. “Does this have anything to do with…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish. Carla McCorkle, that note, the wedding; an irrational part of him, the part that still believed his feelings for Stanley could one day be reciprocated, burned dully at the thought of his past love.  

Stan’s back stiffened and then he turned to face Fiddleford, his expression serious, resolute. “I’m not ready to lose her Fidds.” He made his way over to the bed and sat down on its edge, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at open palms as he muttered, “I’ve only got one more chance. I’ve got to take it, don’t I?”

Fiddleford’s chest felt tight. He could put a stop to this now, if he really wanted to. “Stanley.”

The whispered name drew pleading brown eyes to his and he lost his nerve.

“I – I’m not one for road trips.”

“Please Fidds?” One large hand reached out to cover Fiddleford’s own where it lay on the mattress. “It’d mean a lot to me if you came.”

There was a lump forming in Fiddleford’s throat, but he swallowed against it. He pulled his lips back in something resembling a smile as he conceded, “Alright.”

He couldn’t deny the man anything.

Stan’s happy grin gave Fiddleford a flutter of warmth in the pit of his stomach. “Great! Finish packing, we’ll leave in an hour.” He bounced from the bed and rushed to the door leading to the hall, but paused with one hand on the doorframe. He looked back at Fiddleford, winked, and exclaimed, “We’ve got a wedding to crash!”

Then he was gone.

Fiddleford rubbed tiredly at his brow. He slumped forward on the bed and tried to imagine a scenario in which he could drive clear across the United States to help the love of his life win back his ex-girlfriend without it ending in humiliation and heartbreak.

While his employer came along for the ride.

He groaned softly into the blanket beneath him. Then he lifted his head to look at the disaster Stan had left of his room and groaned harder. 


	2. The Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Reminder that I've switched the twins names in the story to follow ATOTS - so now you've got Author Stanford and (future) Grunkle Stan-ley. Sorry for any confusion this causes - blame Hirsch ;) 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include graphic descriptions of the inside of a rest-stop bathroom (1st part), with details such as: bodily fluids, insects, ‘slime,’ and general bathroom disgustingness. There are also descriptions of nausea (3rd and 4th part) and vomiting (3rd part). Food is mentioned (2nd and 5th part). 
> 
> The characters discuss money in this chapter. I’ve done my best to keep inflation in mind by using an online converter, but, of course, some things cost more now even after you consider inflation, so I may be off with my estimates here. Prices were about four or five times less in 1977 than they are in 2015, so I’m considering $4 then to be about $15 today, $10 to be about $35, and $53 to be just over $200.

Eight hours, a large cup of coffee, and two bottles of water later, Fiddleford was all too happy to see Stan pull into a gas station. He’d ripped off his seatbelt and flung open his door before the car had even come to a full stop beside the pump. Dashing off to one side of the building, and then the other, he tried to ignore Stan’s cackling laughter behind him. He practically barreled through the bathroom door when he found it.

He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Nor was he prepared for the smell.

Fiddleford froze after just one step inside the doorway. His eyes moved quickly around the space from the dark stain on the far wall (that appeared to be dripping), to the tapestry of graffiti on the stalls, to the mucky brown water on the floor by the urinals, and finally to the sizeable cockroach lying still (dead?) by the rusty pipes under the sink.

If his brain had connected to his feet before his bladder, he would have backed right back out of that bathroom and never looked back. Instead, pinching his nose tight, he ventured further inside. His shoes made a horrible _squelch_ on the wet linoleum.

Although he generally shied away from using open urinals in public restrooms, he quickly realized he would have no other option. The door of the first stall was hanging precariously from its top hinge, looking ready to drop at the slightest touch, and the second had what he would later try to remember only as sludge coating the handle.

He spun around before his eyes could register any other nightmare-inducing details (like just where the pinkish water oozing from under that hanging door started) to the nearest urinal. Middle school had prepared him well enough not to look into the bowl before he did his business. He concentrated on a small, relatively innocent crack in the plaster above the flush valve and counted to 300 slowly, in increments of fifteen.

Finished, he went to wash his hands; what _should_ have been the most hygienic part of the whole experience. The mirror above the sink was foggy, with grey backing visible where a large piece was missing in the bottom corner. Fiddleford didn’t bother checking for soap in the crusted over dispenser and considered himself lucky when mostly-clear water came out of the faucet.

He was just shaking his dripping hands (not at all surprised to see that the paper towel dispenser was lying empty, and in pieces, on the floor) and feeling the first warm bubble of relief that his experience was at an end when a scurrying movement caught his eye. He let out one high-pitched shriek before his mind identified the creature crawling out from under the lip of the sink as a centipede, and then he was marching to the exit, spitting out every curse word he’d ever heard in a jumble of anxiety and frustration.

He flung open the bathroom door as hard as he could.

Straight into the man standing behind it.

Fiddleford had just enough time to get out, “My word! I –,” before his apology was interrupted by two large, calloused hands grabbing him by his shirt collar and shoving him against the exterior wall. The back of his head struck the concrete and sent his teeth clacking together uncomfortably. He glanced forward at a broad chest drenched in what appeared to be coffee and then looked slowly up into angry blue eyes.

The man clutching him was young; somewhere in his mid-twenties. He had faded ripped jeans and a thick red flannel shirt (a colour his sweaty face was coming close to matching). He also had well-defined forearms and a strong grip.      

Fiddleford felt real fear curl in his gut.

The young man brought his face within an inch of Fiddleford’s nose and growled out, “Who do you think you are?” A few flecks of spittle landed on Fidds’ cheek and he shrank back, squirming against the wall, but he couldn’t look away from those blazing eyes burning a hole in his skull. This brought a short, derisive laugh from his attacker, who pressed his fists harder into his chest. “Scared? You scrawny little piece of–”

“Is there a problem here?”

Fiddleford recognized the voice immediately and breathed a sigh of relief, but the man in front of him seemed unimpressed with the interruption. He turned his head only slightly to direct his warning of, “Shove off, Mack. Mind your own business,” back at Stanley, all the while maintaining his bruising hold. His fierce gaze returned to the engineer, but only for a moment. Then his eyes snapped closed. His mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. His hands released their hold on Fiddleford’s shirt and curled back toward his own body.

He was clearly in pain, but Fiddleford couldn’t tell, at first, what was causing it. Then the boy twisted desperately against something anchoring him on his left.

Stan’s hand was there gripping – _digging into_ – his collar bone.

Stan stepped closer until his face was next to the flailing man’s ear, on his right side. “The name’s not _Mack_ ,” he whispered gruffly. The young man only whimpered in response. “Now that we got that sorted out,” his grip tightened briefly then relaxed, “why don’tcha say you’re sorry to my friend, here?”

Eyes shut tight, tears pooling at the edges, he barked out a rather unapologetic-sounding “ _Sorry!_ ” to the air above Fiddleford’s head.

Fiddleford said nothing. He concentrated on Stan, whose grin, as he examined the pained expression on his victim’s face, resembled that of a shark. He watched him bring his right hand up and, pressing on the man’s other shoulder, spin him toward the parking lot. They began to move forward, Stan marching behind as if holding him at gunpoint. And he may as well have been with that bone-crushing grip on the man’s clavicle.

Fiddleford followed at a safe distance.

“You gotta pretty bad attitude, kid,” Stan started, giving one hard pat to the shoulder he wasn’t currently grinding down on. He slowly lowered that hand, trailing along his captive’s body without touching it. “But hey, you’re havin’ a bad day, right?”

His hand paused just above the young man’s bottom. Fiddleford’s brows knit together in confusion and something close to guilt – he _wouldn’t_ – but saw Stan instead reach for his back pocket.

Stan smoothly pulled out a cracked-leather wallet, keeping his tone bright, conversational, while he fiddled with it. “You slept wrong,” he pried it open with his thumb and index, “ran out of Cap’n Crunch,” slipped two fingers inside the back slit and flipped the entire thing over to draw out the cash hidden there, “put on the ugliest damn shirt I’ve ever seen,” closed and tucked it back into the man’s pocket, “and then, after all that, you manage to _spill_ your coffee,” and neatly folded the bills in his hand until they disappeared into his palm.

Fiddleford was mesmerized, so much so that he nearly collided with Stan’s back when he stopped suddenly.

“Thing is, you took all that out on the _wrong_ ‘scrawny little’ nerd.” The fingers of his left hand clenched and drew a hiccoughing sob from his victim. Then Stan turned to look at the boy fully and Fiddleford could see his face in profile: his lips bent back in a mocking snarl and his brow drawn down over a gleaming, narrowed eye. He leaned forward and breathed, a hard edge to each word, “ _My_ nerd.”

Fiddleford’s heart might have fluttered if it hadn’t already been racing with dread.

He’d never seen Stanley look so… cold.

Stan’s posture changed in a flash, shoulders rolling back and neck crooking up in a carefree sort of lilt. His tone had a lightness to it that was obviously forced. “Hey, I’m a reasonable guy. Ta show there’s no hard feelings, getch yerself a fresh cup of joe, on me.” He flicked a dollar bill out of the stash curled in his palm with his thumb, pulled it out neatly between two fingers, and dipped his arm over the young man’s shoulder. Fiddleford could only assume he had tucked it into the boy’s shirt pocket, since both of his hands stayed balled in fists at his sides.

Finally, Stan released his grip and gave the man a hard shove forward.

He stumbled, clasped at his aching neck, and swore, but he didn’t look back once as he limped away.

Fiddleford moved to stand beside Stan, flinching when a heavy arm looped around his shoulders. He glanced up in time to see him wave enthusiastically at a pick-up truck squealing out of the lot and onto the freeway. “Stanley?”

Stan reached up to scratch absently at the stubble on his chin. He hummed low in his throat and then said, “Gee Fidds, that was kinda rude of you.”

“ _What?_ ”

Warm brown eyes met his. “A guy buys us dinner,” he continued, lifting his hand off Fiddleford’s shoulder to bring the stolen wad of cash up at eye-level, “the least you could do is wave goodbye.”

Plucking the money from Stan’s open palm, Fiddleford shuffled it about and ran rapid calculations in his head.

Fifty-three.

He counted it again and again, fingers trembling, and every time it came out to _fifty-three American_ _dollars_.

He looked up at Stan in awe. Stan’s grin was bright and kind.

He looked like himself again.

Suddenly Fiddleford found himself laughing; a terrible, braying laugh that burst up from some dark place inside of him. Tears streamed from his eyes, fogging up his glasses, and his ribs ached, but he couldn’t stop. The relief rushing through him was making him hysteric.

Gentle rubbing at his shoulder helped to calm him, slowly. Once he’d quieted down, Stan waved his other hand forward, exclaiming, “Come on, Ford's waiting and I’m startin’ to get hungry!” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and Fiddleford was seized by another, shorter, fit of giggles.

He thought he felt Stan press his chin against the top of his head as they walked back to the car, but the contact was too brief for him to be sure.

 

-xXxXx-

 

The nicest place that Stan could find to eat was an old-fashioned steakhouse just off the interstate. There were dead animals hanging on the walls and wood chips on the floor; Stan thought it looked like a pretty classy joint.

He led the way around crowded tables to a circular booth near the back. Shuffling his way into the middle, he draped both arms against the top of the seat cushion and winked at Fiddleford as he sat down on his right. Then he put all of his focus on his brother.

Ford seemed to be off in his own world when they sat down, like usual. He took the menu Stan passed him from the middle of the table without one word of acknowledgement.

Stan counted under his breath. He made it to four before he got the reaction he was waiting for.

“Wh-hoa!” Ford laughed, getting awkwardly to his feet in the tight space of the booth. “This place is a _little_ out of our price range, guys. We better –” Stan pulled him back down before he could finish. He turned to glare at his twin and was interrupted again (“What the he–”) by a waitress coming to take their drink orders.

“What’s the most expensive wine ya got, doll?” Stan asked the middle-aged woman standing across from him. He leaned his elbows on the table to flash his most charming smile up at her and pointedly ignored the kick Ford gave him under the table.

The waitress smirked and eyed each of the three men in turn before settling her appraising stare on Stan. “The Cab Sav’s four dollars by the glass, hun. The Syrah’s a nice red too, though. Only two fifty.”

“We’ll take the first one,” Stan told her confidently (though he had no idea what a cab-whatever was). He held out three fingers to make it clear he was ordering for all of them.

As soon as the waitress had left, Stanford pounced on his brother, “What _was_ that, Stanley? Do you _want_ to go broke before we even hit Wyoming?”

Stan hummed deep in his throat and took hold of his menu. He flipped to a page and read out loud, “Let’s see, do I want the rib-eye for nine or the New York strip for nine fifty? What do you think, Fidds?” He glanced up to see Fiddleford hiding a small smile behind one hand. That special gleam in those big blue eyes gave him away, though, and if Ford hadn’t been too busy blowing a gasket right now he would have known something was up.

Before his brother wound up dragging his butt out of there, Stan took the lifted cash out of his pocket, fanned it so that every bill was showing, and waved the lot in front of Ford's nose. Stanford's eyes widened comically. He grabbed Stan’s wrist and yanked it back down under the table, hissing, “ _Stanley_ , you _didn’t!_ ” A giggle from across the table briefly pulled Ford's attention away. “Don’t encourage him, professor!”

Stan shot an approving grin at Fiddleford while Stanford started to lecture him, in an erratic pitch and using frenzied hand gestures, about how stupid it was to get into trouble out of state. “The cops don’t _know_ us here; how are we supposed to bail you out when…” Stan tuned him out, a skill he’d had perfected since grade school.

When he finally had enough of Ford's whining, he clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth and leaned in to whisper, “The asshole had it coming.” He looked hard at Stanford, made sure he had his full attention, and then ground out, “He was messing with Fidds.”

Stan took his hand away and both brothers turned to Fiddleford. The engineer raised an eyebrow at them, but said nothing. Stan glanced back at Ford to see his mouth set in a grim line. He caught Stan’s gaze and nodded.    

The tension was broken by the arrival of their drinks. “You ready to order, fellas?”

The other two immediately looked down at their forgotten menus, but Stan was set and ready to drop some cash. “The rib-eye for me, doll. With the baked potato.”

Their waitress scratched his request out on her notepad and then looked expectantly at his twin.

“I guess I’ll take the… uh, sirloin,” Ford decided, adjusting his glasses. Stan’s hand swatting him enthusiastically on the back distracted him from the woman’s next question. Embarrassed, he chose the first side she offered at the repeat.

Fiddleford was better prepared at his turn. He handed the waitress his menu with a kind smile lifting at the corners of his mouth. “Just a Caesar salad for me, I think.”

“You sure, Fidds? You might get hungry later,” Stan broke in quickly.

The waitress paused, pen poised over her notepad, but Fiddleford nodded firmly.

She was just moving away, when Stan called, “Add a side a’ fries for the table, too,” after her. It would be a sure-fire way to get to get the nerd to eat something; he could never control himself around French fries. And if Stan made sure the plate ended up on that side of the table, well, that would be his business and no one else’s.

With that taken care of, he was ready to just relax and enjoy their well-earned meal. He cupped the bottom of the wine glass in front of him, lifted it in a happy salute, and locked eyes with Fiddleford.

“Cheers!”

 

-xXxXx-

 

The trouble started after they passed Evanston, in Wyoming.

Stanley was in the back dozing, with his head against the side window, and Fiddleford was keeping Stanford company in the front seat. The plan was to drive until they hit Fort Steele and then check into a motel. It would have meant leaving the interstate at about 2:00 AM.

They turned off a full three hours early.

It was lucky that they had an empty paper bag in the car, tucked away under the backseat. It was even luckier that Stan figured out what was going on with enough time to pass it to Fiddleford before he puked in the glove-box.

Ford pulled into the Save Inn’s lot at 11:15 and Stan jumped out as soon as he cut the engine. He hadn’t even gotten out of the car when Stan ran back with a room key.

Between the two of them, they managed to carry all the bags and help weak-kneed Fiddleford up the stairs to the second floor in one trip. Halfway there, he had to stop to hurl over the rail and Stan wrapped a protective arm across his chest to keep him from going over the edge, too. They made it the rest of the way up without further incident.

The first thing Ford did inside the room was untangle his bag and satchel and Stan’s backpack from his shoulders. He dumped them on the bed while Stan walked Fiddleford slowly across the thin carpet.

Stan kicked the bathroom door open. It banged loudly against the wall and rattled the picture hanging on the other side. Soon after the pair disappeared inside, that horrible retching sound started again. Ford shuddered.

When those awful wet noises had finally stopped, Ford approached the bathroom cautiously to peek around the doorframe. His assistant was on his knees with both arms wrapped around the toilet bowl. He was panting and sweaty. Stan was stooped over him, rubbing soothing circles on Fiddleford’s back with one hand.

“Hey, Stan?” He waited for his brother to look up and then continued, “We’ve only got the one bed here, so why don’t you and Fiddleford share it. I’m going to set myself up on the couch.” He turned to do just that when Stan shook his head.

“I’ll take the couch Ford, you’ve been driving all night.”

Ford narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. He couldn’t be serious. “You drove all day!”

Stan straightened, jabbing a finger into Ford's chest. “Yeah well, you –”

“Stop!” Both brothers looked down at Fiddleford, who was sitting up straight with his hands braced on the toilet seat. “You can both take the damn bed.” He grimaced, shut his eyes, and rasped out, “I won’t be fit to leave this bathroom,” pausing to swallow wetly before he finished, pitifully, “any time soon.”

Stanley crouched back down to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Fidds –”

“Just go,” Fiddleford groaned. The last bit of strength he had seemed to leave him and he fell forward to brush his forehead against the open lid. His glasses tilted off his nose and would have fallen into the soiled water had Stan not reached out to catch them. He whispered a frustrated and pathetic, “Please,” to the back wall.

Stan looked sadly up at Ford. Then he stood, ran a gentle hand through Fiddleford’s sweat-soaked hair, and murmured, “We’ll be right outside,” as he moved away. He pulled the door along behind him, but left it open a crack.

The brothers settled on the bed without bothering to change out of their clothes. Stanford grabbed the remote to flip through the dozen channels on the television at high speed, getting more entertainment from the flickering flashes of colour than he would have by any program at that late hour. Stanley was lying beside him, facing the wall that divided the bathroom from the rest of the living area. He was pretending to be asleep, but they both knew better.

Ford's bladder woke him a few hours later. He plucked his glasses from his chest, turned off the snowy television screen, stretched, and shuffled his way down the hall.

In the bathroom he startled at the sight of Fiddleford, passed out, with his face smushed against the toilet seat. He’d forgotten all about his poor assistant.

Tripping over the luggage that Stan had left on the tile floor, Ford moved to the sink to soak a washcloth with cool water. He bent down to swipe at Fiddleford’s face, relieved, for his own stomach’s sake, that the sick man had flushed after his last purge. Then he carefully scooped Fiddleford up into his arms and carried him out the door.

Stan was already climbing out of bed when he rounded the corner and together they tucked Fiddleford under the sheets on Ford's side. When Stan made to move for the couch, Ford caught his arm and said firmly, “Stay with Fiddleford, Stan.” He tightened his hold, shutting down his brother’s next protest by appealing to his protective side, “Keep him safe.”

After a moment’s thought, Stanley nodded solemnly.

As Ford was walking back to the bathroom, he turned to see his brother slide carefully under the bed sheets next to Fiddleford and smiled to himself. His assistant was in good hands.

 

-xXxXx-

 

The first sensation Fiddleford could recognize as he returned to consciousness was warmth. He just felt so delightfully _warm_ , he wanted to stay right there and doze the day away, wrapped in…

Wrapped in what?

He opened his eyes.

It took his sleep-muddled brain a long time to register the unconscious man in front of him as Stanley Pines. It took even longer to recognize how close their faces were to each other, that the slight pressure he felt on his back was Stan’s arm draped over him, and that their legs were tangled together under the thin sheets.

When these realities finally caught up to him, he forgot how to breathe.

A soft snore from Stan got his lungs working again. He huffed out a short laugh that he instantly regretted and sucked his bottom lip under his front teeth to wait for the fallout.

Stan didn’t wake.

Not one to waste a perfectly good opportunity when it arose, Fiddleford laid still and examined the face next to his carefully.

He’d never noticed how long Stan’s eyelashes were before; the curled tips touched his cheeks delicately where the lids closed. The stubble on his jaw looked so soft up close he had to fight against the urge to reach out and caress it. He looked up instead at thin lips that were pulled into a smug sort of grin, even at rest.

There was drool leaking onto the pillow from those lips.

As much as Fiddleford tried to concentrate on that detail, to make himself feel disgust, be disillusioned by this all too human lapse, he couldn’t see it as anything but charming. Stanley seemed at peace, like nothing could disturb the calm of his dreams.  

Until his brows furrowed and his eyes blinked open to stare into his.

Fiddleford’s breath hitched in his throat. His first, irrational, thought was to stay totally still so the other man wouldn’t see him, but then Stan smiled sweetly and he knew he was caught.

The arm around him was lifted so Stan could rub at his eyes. It left a chill where it had lain and Fiddleford shivered despite himself.

Stan peered at him with one red-rimmed eye while he worked at clearing the other. He murmured,“Mornin,’” in a gravelly, groggy voice.

“Good morning,” Fiddleford replied cautiously. His throat felt very dry.

Stan lowered his hand to the bed between them. The sclera where he’d rubbed was dotted red. “How’s your gut doin’ today, Fidds?”

The sudden reminder of his earlier sickness made Fiddleford’s stomach lurch. He had to swallow down fresh bile, wincing at the gurgling sound it made, but he nevertheless croaked out the lie, “Much better.”

“Good.” A raised eyebrow suggested Stan wasn’t quite convinced, but he didn’t press. He pushed himself up into a lazy sitting position. “We’ve got the room till noon. Looks like we’ll all have time for a rinse before we head out.”

Fiddleford lifted himself up on his elbows to squint at the clock on the far wall. The numbers were too small to read from this distance without his… oh. “Have you seen my glasses?”

Stan blinked down at him for a moment and then he was suddenly on top of him, resting one fist on the bed by Fiddleford’s ribcage and reaching with his other hand to open the drawer of the end table to his right.

There was electricity running through Fiddleford where their sides pressed together at the hip. Stan’s neck was inches from the tip of his nose; when he took a deep breath in he was met with the musky and strangely sweet scent of his sweat. He shifted, fell back against the bed, and worked at calming his racing heartbeat.

When Stan had finally finished riffling through the drawer, he pulled back, his grinning, gorgeous face hovering above him, and held the folded specs out for Fiddleford to take.

The contact was broken and it left him cold.

Stan stretched both arms above his head as he sat back, lifting the edge of his t-shirt and revealing some of the pale, taught flesh beneath. He rubbed at his eyes again, fortunately missing Fiddleford’s dazed stare, and muttered, “I’ll let ya shower first, Fidds. Just gotta,” he pointed his thumb in the direction of the bathroom. The mattress sagged when he stood.

While he waited, Fiddleford sat up and let his gaze wander around the small motel room; at the rabbit-eared television at the foot of the bed, the crooked blinds letting in strands of light at the window, and the other Pines brother sprawled out on the small loveseat underneath. He flushed to see his employer, to think of what _he_ may have seen, but a loud, rumbling snore settled his nerves. This was Stanford Pines, the paranormal researcher who had once napped on the living room couch while gnomes raided his kitchen. The man could sleep through anything.

Stan returned from the bathroom a few minutes later looking refreshed. His hair was less mussed, though not yet styled, and his eyes were much clearer. “Your turn, bud. Need any help?”

All of the blood in Fiddleford’s body must have rushed to his face for his cheeks to feel so hot. “No, no!” he began, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to stand, “That won’t be,” but the shift was too much for his strained body and he fell into strong arms. “Necessary,” he finished lamely.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Fiddleford was guided to the bathroom cradled in Stan’s arms. At the shower, Stan adjusted the water temperature while keeping a firm hand on his hip. When he was finished he took that hand away in cautious stages, inch by inch, watching Fiddleford closely for any signs of unsteadiness. Then he whispered, “Holler if you need me, Fidds,” softly as he walked away.

Fiddleford waited until the door clicked shut to shed his clothes and step, carefully, beneath the warm spray. Propping himself up against the tile wall, he roughly lathered shampoo into his hair and tried not to think about Stanley Pines; that kind, sleepy smile, muscled arms holding him so incredibly gently, a heavy weight pressed flush against his…

He yanked the tap around to cold and held back a scream.

 

-xXxXx-

 

“So, I followed the tracks, right? Almost lost them at the river,”  Ford paused to slurp loudly at his cola, “but they started up again about twenty yards downstream.”

Stan nodded absently. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced up, for the hundredth time, at Fiddleford’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. He was still staring glumly out the window with his legs curled up beneath him on the seat, his arms crossed over his stomach, and his forehead pressed against the headrest. Stan frowned and turned his eyes back to the road.

“There was this cave,” Ford had grabbed the bag with their lunches and started unwrapping the plastic from a sandwich. He took a bite and continued, his words muffled against the food in his mouth, “and the tracks lead right inside!”

Stan sniffed the air and crinkled his nose. Egg salad; his brother had the worst taste in grub.

A soft moan from behind him had his gaze shifting again to the mirror above. Fiddleford’s eyes were shut tight and a hand covered the lower half of his face. Stan could hear laboured breaths pushed against the palm; he was breathing through his mouth.

“You’ll never believe what I found!”

Everything moved quickly then. Cranking down the window, swiping what remained of Ford's sandwich from of his hands, tossing it outside to splatter against the pavement… the job was done in a matter of seconds.

Stanford was surprised enough not to make a peep until after Stan had rolled up the window, and then his, “What the hell, Stan?” was muted by a hand clamped over his mouth.

Stan tilted his head to gesture to the backseat. His one-handed grip on the steering wheel tightened as he hissed, “You were stinkin’ up the whole car with that crap.”

He wrenched his arm away in disgust when a slobbery tongue licked his palm.

Ugh.

Ford didn’t say anything for a while after that and Stan could see him pouting out of the corner of his eye. He sighed, waved to the plastic bag on the dash, and muttered, “Have mine, ya big baby.”

While Ford was happily digging into _his_ turkey on rye, Stan took another look at the backseat. Fiddleford’s eyes were still closed, but his posture was looser. The hand that had been hiding his face had fallen to his chest. He looked a heck of a lot more relaxed, like he’d gone to sleep.

Stan drove the next few hundred miles very carefully.

 

-xXxXx-

 

The I-80 was pretty much dead at 1:00 AM.

Stanley was fast asleep in the back of the car, his arms spread out across the top of the seat and his head resting against one shoulder. He’d probably get a crick in his neck like that, but Ford didn’t have the heart to wake him; Lee had driven nearly twelve hours that day, with only a few short breaks to recharge, and he’d been exhausted when they’d finally switched. Both Stanford and Fiddleford had napped periodically while they’d crossed through Nebraska, so they were wide awake now.

Fiddleford had basically recovered from his food poisoning of the night before, despite being cramped in a hot car all day. His appetite had returned, slowly, and his colour was back to normal. He had been happily chatting with Ford in the front seat for the better part of an hour, voices kept low so as not to disturb the sleeping man behind them.

“Connie and I burst out laughing, you should have seen it!” Ford tapped one hand down excitedly on the steering wheel as he finished the story and chuckled softly.

“So who’s Connie?”

The question caught him by surprise. “Huh?” he asked, intelligently, glancing over at his assistant. There weren’t many lights on this stretch of the highway, but he could make out enough of Fiddleford’s features to know that he was smiling. He turned back to the road.

“The Connie you keep referring to – were you dating?” Fiddleford pressed.

Ford weighed the question, sucking in air to whistle between his two front teeth. “Nah, she’d never go for a guy like me.” There was a bitter smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he kept his tone bright as he explained, “She was Carla’s cousin, so sometimes we’d all hang out, the four of us. But it was always about Carla and Stan.” A bit of that bitterness crept in when he finished, “My brother can really draw people’s attention, you know?”

With memories of long raven hair and laughing green eyes surging through him, he barely even registered Fiddleford’s somber reply of, “I know.”

“I guess Connie will be coming to this thing too,” Ford muttered, absently.

“Will you talk with her?”

A dark sort of laugh rumbled in Stanford's chest, vibrating through his reply, “I don’t know how welcome we’re going to be after Stanley gets through his business with Carla.”

There was a long pause, and then Fiddleford asked, in a voice that was very small, “You don’t think she’ll take him back?”

Ford took his time answering, mulling over every word carefully. “I don’t know. There was a time when I really thought they were meant to be, when I was starting to think of Carla as a _sister_ instead of Stan’s girlfriend, but now?” He exhaled a loud huff of air through his nose. “After everything that’s happened between them, I just don’t know.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He forced the admission, “I just hope he gets the closure he needs,” past a knot lodged in his throat.

The two sat in silence for a mile or two. After a long bend in the road, Ford started the conversation back up on what he thought would be a lighter note.

“What about you, professor? Any ‘one that got away’?”

He heard Fiddleford take in a sharp breath and at first misinterpreted the reaction as embarrassment.

“Aw, come on, doc!” he teased, “I don’t need all the gory details, but you could tell me her name, at least!”

He winced when he felt Fiddleford’s body grow tense beside him. How far had he stuck his foot in his mouth this time? Perhaps he had dredged up some painful memory for Fiddleford or else…

A flash of insight.

“Wait, are… Fiddleford, are you not _into_ girls?”

Suddenly his assistant was pleading with him, words rushing out in a jumbled mess, “Stanford, please – _please_ , don’t fire me! This is the best job I’ve ever had!” He sounded on the verge of _crying_. “Please, I –”

“Whoa!” Ford rushed to soothe, “Calm _down_ , Fiddleford. I’d never do something like that.”

He rubbed at his jaw self-consciously with one hand while he gathered his thoughts.

“Look, you don’t care if I’m straight, right? If you’re…” A sudden fear of using the wrong term, of accidentally offending his already upset friend, made his tongue stick, uselessly, to the top of his mouth. Ford swallowed and changed tactics, “This doesn’t change anything, Fiddleford. I promise.”

After a pause, Fiddleford said, “I think I’ll turn in now, Stanford," in a voice that sounded very tired. Or maybe it was defeated. “If you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” he replied with a little too much enthusiasm. “Good night, Fiddleford.”

Ford watched his assistant settle into the seat, curled towards the window on that side, from the corner of his eye. He sighed, looking out the windshield at the dark landscape. His eyes flickered to the rear-view mirror, but then doubled back when he realized: Stanley was awake.

His brother caught his gaze and smirked.

Ford returned his attention briefly to the road. When he checked back, Stan’s eyes were closed.

 

-xXxXx-

 

The slamming of a car door was a rude awakening. Fiddleford started, shooting forward, only to be wrenched back by the seatbelt fastened tightly around him. He pushed the bridge of his glasses further up his nose and looked out the windshield at a brick wall.

“Better hurry up, Fidds,” Stan’s deep voice came from his left. He was leaning into the open driver’s side window, his arms crossed over the rim. “We’re just here to take a leak and grab some grub. We won’t be stopping again till we hit Ohio.” He tilted his head to the side and gave a crooked smile that sent Fiddleford’s heart racing.

Last night’s conversation came back to him in a rush.

Stanford  _knew_ about him.

He may start to notice some peculiar things; how clumsy Fiddleford could be with Stanley watching, how awkward he became at just a touch from those calloused hands, how smitten he got to see that man of such strength turn soft…

What would Stanford do if he found out how head-over-heels in love Fiddleford was with his brother? How would it change their relationship; as colleagues and as friends?

What if he told Stanley?

“You coming?”

He whipped his head back to Stan, still there at the window with an eyebrow raised. He nodded quickly, made to leave the car, but got strangled once more by that cursed seatbelt. Stan’s laugh followed him as he made his exit and walked towards the gas station’s convenience store.

But then he was in front of him, blocking his way.

Fiddleford peered nervously through the store’s windows, searching for Ford among the magazine racks and candy displays. He gasped to feel fingers caressing his cheek and turned back around.

Stan was looking at him with the same gentle concern he had shown yesterday morning in the motel. “How are ya feeling today, Fidds?” His hand moved to hook over Fiddleford’s shoulder.

A pleasant ball of warmth settled below his ribs.

He was playing a dangerous game having these feelings for Stanley Pines. He’d been playing at it for months, but now, in the space of a day, the risks had doubled.

This longing would ruin him if he let it.

Fiddleford took a step away, out of Stan’s hold. He directed his gaze to a spot on the concrete, to keep from seeing the confusion that must have appeared in those kind brown eyes, and chattered, “Fine, fine. I was going to get a coffee, would you like one?” He hurried through the convenience store’s door without waiting for a reply.

He followed Ford out sometime later, balancing a tray of coffees carefully.

When a hand snaked out to grab at the tray he jerked his arms up. All three cups would have been sent flying, but Stanley reacted swiftly enough to steady the tray so that only one spilled. He even managed to scoop the errant cup up before more than half had been lost.

Fiddleford let go of the tray when he realized Stan had a hold of it. He moved his legs away from the hot coffee dripping to the pavement and looked up at Stan’s amused smile.

There was a joke waiting on those lips; a bright spot of humour to make this embarrassing display feel alright.

Fiddleford snatched the half-full cup from Stan’s hand and walked swiftly past. He launched himself into the backseat, pulled a novel he’d read a hundred times already from his bag on the floor, and ignored the muffled conversation going on outside.    

 

-xXxXx-

 

Stan’s hands clenched the steering wheel firmly at the 10 and 2 positions, but his mind wasn’t exactly on the road. Every time he checked the rear-view mirror his eyes caught on Fiddleford, sitting stiffly behind him, reading from a dusty old paperback. He hadn’t said a word to either Pines twin since that weird display at the rest stop. He’d just been staring at that book for two hours and as far as Stan could tell, he hadn’t even turned a page.

Was he mad about something? Stan couldn’t remember ever seeing Fiddleford angry before.

He’d seen him annoyed plenty of times, but that was just part of the game they played with each other. Fidds always cooled down after a minute or two, rolled his eyes, called him a moron, and then went back to whatever he was working on before he’d interrupted. No harm, no foul.

He’d seen him frustrated too, more often than he liked, from being overworked and tired. Fidds would whine, throw something, maybe, and Stan would have to lure him out of the lab with a hot plate of something delicious. When his stomach was full, he’d be back to his old self pretty quick.

There’d only been one time that Stan had seen Fiddleford come even _close_ to angry. It was after that infamous Halloween prank he’d pulled to welcome his brother’s new assistant to the team.

He’d set the plan in motion a full week before the main event, strolling into the lab with a bandage on his arm and complaining about a ‘run-in’ he’d had with a wolf in the woods. Fiddleford had piped up to ask if Stan had had a rabies’ shot and to spout other medical mumbo-jumbo, but he hadn’t shown much interest, otherwise.

The curious, suspicious looks didn’t start until a couple nights later, after Stan had scattered dog hair on the living room rug and scratched out some pretty convincing tracks in the mud leading off the back porch. The next day he’d burst into the nerds’ office, clutching one of his t-shirts, ripped to shreds, and accused Ford of ruining his clothes for his ‘dumb experiments.’ He’d watched Fiddleford grow pale out of the corner of his eye while they argued and knew he had him; hook, line, and sinker.

On Halloween night, while Ford was out buying candy, Stan had crept up behind Fiddleford in the kitchen, turned off the lights, and let out a deep, shuddering _growl_.

Fidds’ girlish shriek had been just about worth that frying pan to the head.

Sure, Fiddleford had _looked_ pretty angry that day; mouth set in a hard line, nostrils flaring, cheeks spotted red... His silence while he’d rifled through the first aid kit and the way he’d pressed cotton to the cut at Stan’s scalp with a little more force than necessary had definitely made it _seem_ like he was mad. But his eyes had been watery when he’d looked up at him and it was concern, not anger, that had him choking up when he’d whispered, “That was incredibly stupid of you, Stanley."

It was the only time Stan had ever felt guilty for a prank.

Fiddleford had gotten a good shot in with that frying pan; Stan still had the scar, seven months later. He lifted one hand off the steering wheel to touch the small white pucker of tissue at his hairline and smiled. But the humour faded with another glance at the rigid man in the backseat.

Stan grit his teeth and thought back to that morning and the night before. He started to turn over every interaction, every dumb thing he might have said or done, searching for that one moment in time where he went wrong.

He really should have been paying closer attention to the road.

“ _Stan,_ _look out!”_

 

-xXxXx-

 

It really wasn’t that bad.

The semi that had cut into their lane could have done a lot of damage, sure, but Stan had slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right with just enough time to avoid it. There had been no contact between the two vehicles, no one was injured, and their car was now parked safely on the side of the road.

But Lee was still in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

He’d turned around when the car had jerked to a stop to look both Fiddleford and Ford up and down. They’d had to assure him several times that yes, they were fine, no, they weren’t hurt, before he’d believed them.

Then Stan had pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, repeated the word ‘shit’ in a pained, anxious mantra, and started to cry.

Ford didn’t know what to do; he’d only seen his brother cry a handful of times as an adult and never this openly. He reached out a hand to pat those trembling shoulders, but Stan flinched away before he could touch him.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford breathed out behind them. He’d taken off his seatbelt to move closer, hooking his hands over the top of the front seat and leaning in as far as he comfortably could.

Another choked sob from Stan had the colleagues sharing a look of concern. Ford's voice was soothing, if a tad patronizing, when he murmured, “Why don’t you let me drive for a while, Stan, huh?”

“No,” Fiddleford’s firm tone cut in suddenly, “You boys have been exhausting yourselves keeping up with your mad schedule. Let me have a turn.”

Stanford's first instinct was to argue, but before he could get a chance Stanley had shoved open his door and pushed himself out onto the side of the road. He stood back, like a valet at a fancy restaurant, with his hand poised on the door handle. Ford ducked down to try to catch sight of his brother’s face through the windshield, but only managed as far up as a wet, stubbled chin.

It took a minute for Fiddleford to react, then he moved outside with an awkward shuffle and fell, just as awkwardly, onto the driver’s seat. Stan slammed his door closed and crawled into the back.

As Fiddleford settled in, making precise adjustments to the seat and mirrors, Ford swung his head around to look at Stan. His brother’s face was red from crying, and probably embarrassment too, and there were a couple of loose tears dripping down his cheeks. He sat crouched forward, staring at a spot on the floor to the left and digging his nails into his knees.

Stanford was overcome with pity and he hated himself for it. He turned to face forward as the car engine hummed to life, whispering, “Buckle up, Lee," to dead, tense air.

 

-xXxXx-

 

Fiddleford rather enjoyed the drive through Pennsylvania. The pavement was smooth, the traffic was light, and it had been so long since he’d driven on a highway. There was a feeling of freedom that came from flowing through open landscape at seventy miles-per-hour.

It made it easier not to think about the gloomy man seated behind him.

Stan had done nothing but sit quietly there in the backseat since their close call. He hadn’t even gotten out to stretch his legs at the last pit stop and he’d refused the snack Ford had offered him when the two had gotten back to the car. His behaviour was highly unusual.

Fiddleford was really starting to get worried.

A road sign up ahead reminded him of something. “Aren’t you fellas from New Jersey?”

Ford replied with enthusiasm, “Yeah, over by the ‘Shore! We had a blast as a kids running around the beach all summer, right Stan?” His brother didn’t respond, but Stanford seemed unperturbed. He pointed excitedly out the windshield. “Could you stop up here for a sec, professor?”

It took some maneuvering, but Fiddleford managed to park on the shoulder fairly close to the _Welcome to New Jersey_ sign. He watched his boss fiddle with the bag at his feet. After a few minutes of fruitless searching Ford reached instead to open the glove box and snorted, pulling a small Polaroid camera out from under a cluttered pile of maps and insurance papers.

“Let’s go!” Ford called, opening the door and swinging himself out.

Fiddleford followed at a slower pace, glancing only once at the rear-view mirror as he made his exit. Stan hadn’t moved a twitch since he’d last checked.

He trotted awkwardly down the grassy slope to where his boss was standing by the large metal sign. Ford turned to address him, then his eyes lit up and he started to wave at a spot over Fiddleford’s shoulder.

The engineer looked around to see Stanley making the short trek towards them. Although his expression was still far too solemn, it gave Fiddleford a pleasant sort of tingle to see him there.

When Stan reached them, Ford clapped his brother on the back and gave him a small push forward. He shouted, “Stand here with Fiddleford so I can get a picture!” while he jogged back closer to the car.

Fiddleford tilted his head up, but Stan spun around before he could catch his eye. His mouth puckered unevenly in a smile that was so clearly forced it made Fiddleford’s stomach churn.

“Professor!” Stanford's call had him turning just as the camera flashed.

Stanley brushed by him without a word, without a glance. He passed his twin, shaking his head at something Ford was saying to him, and ducked back into the car.

A rush of disappointment passed through Fiddleford, but he gulped it down. He moved slowly toward Ford, who was busy waving the Polaroid’s print in the air.

Once he was satisfied that the ink was dry, Stanford held the photo out to his assistant.

He had captured every awful detail of the moment; Stan's pained grimace, Fiddleford’s brow furrowed in confusion, the wide space that had stretched, screaming, between them. All there in front of that friendly green sign.

Welcome to New Jersey.    

 

-xXxXx-

 

The minute tab flipped over with another loud, flat _click_. It was 3:23 in the morning.

Stan had been staring at the clock, his head lying on the hard mattress inches from its shiny black surface, since Ford had shut the TV off at 1:16. The pillow he’d abandoned long before had been relegated to his brother’s grabby arms, crushed into the side of his face to be drooled on the rest of the night.

‘Better you than me, pal,’ Stan thought wryly.

3:24.

He couldn’t take another second of this.

Stan rolled off the bed carefully, a dull thud sounding out as his knees came in contact with the floor. His brother shifted, flung a stiff arm over his forehead, but didn’t wake up. Stan grinned as he arched into a standing position; Ford was just a big pile of dead weight when he slept.

The carpet was rough on his bare feet. He moved around the bed with quick little steps, wincing at every creak in the unfamiliar floorboards. He stopped a few feet in front of the couch Fiddleford was curled up on and looked between the two sleeping researchers.

He could have killed them today; two of the most important people in his life gone because he was being careless and stupid.

A cold shiver ran up Stan’s spine.

As he stood, alone in that cramped motel room, the darkness began to swell and the silence (why couldn’t he hear them _breathe_ anymore?) grew with it. There was a heaviness in his chest, pushing downward, making it harder and harder to take air into his lungs.

Then Fiddleford moved, breaking the silence with mumbled, incomprehensible words, and Stan remembered how to breathe.

He stooped down and crawled the rest of the way to the couch like a child, kneeling shyly by his friend’s head when he got there.

“F–Fiddleford?” More mumbling came in response, but the smaller man was still fast asleep. Stan leaned in a little closer. “Fidds?”

Fiddleford groaned, ran a tired hand down the side of his face, and rolled over to peer up at him. He cleared his throat, but still sounded pretty groggy when he whispered, “Stanley? What is it?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Stan choked out. His tongue continued to move, up and down, in his mouth, but it wouldn’t form any more words. He bit his lip in frustration. He needed to _talk_ , damn it. To tell Fidds how sorry he was for everything; for the accident, for breaking down, and for whatever he’d done to upset him before this crappy day had even started.

He just wanted everything to go back to the way it was before.

Fiddleford had propped himself up on one elbow to reach Stan’s eye-level. After waiting a minute or two, maybe to see if Stan would continue, he remarked gently, “You have a big day tomorrow.”

Carla.

Shit, he hadn’t even… With all the stress of the day he’d forgotten all about the _wedding_. The one he was planning to ruin in the morning.

“Yeah.”

Fiddleford hummed and Stan waited for him to turn away, to tell him to go back to bed and let him sleep. Then a hand shot out to grope at the floor between them, brushing lightly against his thigh before moving to the corner of the couch and dipping past the open zipper of the duffel bag lying there. It fumbled around for a while until Fidds let out a triumphant little noise and pulled out a small square object. He held it out to Stan. “Care for a hand of poker?”

Stan grasped the deck of cards, grinned, and started to shuffle.


End file.
